


Hands and Hurts

by IllusionaryEnnui



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Minor Injuries, NSFW, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllusionaryEnnui/pseuds/IllusionaryEnnui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlesian-made pales in comparison to real Ferelden stock, she finds. But under his command, she only knows indulgence. || Cullen x F!Trevelyan Archer (One-Shot, Gift Fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands and Hurts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chenria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chenria/gifts).



> A Christmas gift for the lovely [Chenria](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chenria/profile) of her noble archer Estelle and the good commander.

  
_No matter the hurts,_   
_my hands are yours to command;_   
_their strength, your promise._   


The usual guards manned the battlements of Skyhold, their salutes barely seen in the dark. Along the stone walls, the torches cast enough light to wash their faces in a dull orange glow and nothing more. Estelle Trevelyan met them with a quiet smile, and a brief nod as she pushed forward.

Her body sang with the aches, and tender bruises hidden by her armour. A host of scratches were carved where her leathers had not be quite enough. Biting back a groan, Estelle cursed that damn high dragon. Crackling with lightning and a vicious streak, it nearly chased away the snowy wyvern that had been their quarry, but even now, its scales made themselves useful under Harritt and Dagna's care. With the heart safely in Madame de Fer's hands, all Estelle craved was another's, a breath of stillness among the growing chorus of hurts.

She wanted _him_.

The hinges of a heavy guard tower door squeaked as she pushed it open, but once inside, she felt her heart drop.

"Your Worship?" A broom in hand, the squire stood, torn between falling to his knees to bow or merely staring, awestruck. "My deepest apologies, milady… the Commander, he's given me a letter for you. I pray I've served well."

Hands shaking, the young man held out a small folded bit of parchment, the red seal of the Inquisitor softened from having been jostled within the boy's pocket. He dared not meet her sapphire gaze as Estelle unfolded and read the simple message. Calloused fingers, crooked too often around a bowstring, traced the familiar initial.

> _Your quarters._
> 
> _\- C._

A surprised squeal sounded as Estelle patted the squire's stiff, worried shoulder. Maker's breath, the poor thing would have jumped out of his skin had he not been under orders. Hardly a word of thanks was all she managed before the boy rushed away. Behind him, he could not see the spread of relief crossing the Inquisitor's features as it tugged on the scar that lined her jaw. Back into the winter night she sank, winding, again, through Skyhold's corridors. All around her, those who looked to her for strength and guidance slept like lambs. How could they be so peaceful? She cannot count how many times she questioned it, her shoulders feeling too heavy beneath that weight. Her sure but careful steps carried her onwards, each whimper and flutter of wind cutting deeper until she reached it, reached that one place where she might be free.

Outside that place, they bore only their titles, the burdens of their stations. But there, safe in her quarters or his tower, they were themselves, unmasked. The hard click of the lock followed her steps, her boots tracking mud across the rug meant to ward off the cold. Sandalwood wafted from candles burned low, mere stubs. But all she cared for was that moment of respite, a moment to breathe where neither templar, mage, nor darkspawn might find them. To see the Commander of the Inquisition at ease when she slipped into their sanctuary brought her heart some comfort. Head propped in a broad, scarred palm, golden-hued eyes slid closed, Estelle could not help but smile as the guise of Commander melted away to reveal the man beneath. Sleep came too little in those days, but indulgence and weakness sought other pleasures. He never slept, she imagined - even now, he merely rested, his fingers stained by ink and a half-written note to the blacksmith left without a signature, and another map labelled only by the local landmarks spread across her desk.

Her fingers curled in the soft fur of his tunic. He wore no armour, its cold weight set aside for a squire to polish in the morning. Even without its mask, the warrior's strength mapped itself in the broadness of his shoulders, in the tensed knot of muscles which twitched at her touch.

" _Es-stelle_..." Even marked by half-sleep, the sound of her name brought her lips to the Commander's temple. Thick, sword-worn fingers reached to cradle hers, its warmth radiating through her skin. "You're late."

"You should be sleeping."

Their play began, a subtle game.

"As should you," Cullen mumbled back. Still, the slight quirk of a smile pulled on his lips when he drew her down into his lap. Without his armour, he still wore his strength, his command writ into every word and act. "But there was work to be done."

Estelle winced, her bruised ribs protesting against the quick twist as she fell into his embrace.

"You're hurt." Even as he pressed his lips to hers, he spoke with an even tone, an automatic cadence. Estelle stared away towards the fire, knowing the reproach as easily as it lingered in his quiet timbre. His fingers fell into the pale golden curls, pulling the strands from their intricate knot. They fell around her face to hide the flush of shame where it crossed her face. Only Cullen saw this side of her, the human-side where only her desire and his marched together.

"I'll be fine," she murmured in return, heedless of discomfort. Her own fingertips traced the curve of his jaw, close-clipped nails scraping a week-old beard. What care had she for such hurts when her body demanded another, more pleasant ache? She tugged at the laces of his tunic. "I'll heal."

"So you say." Cullen fussed over every scratch, every mottled splash of colour upon her skin. It showed how vulnerable she was, how fleeting a breath could be. In his touch, she felt the clash of strength and worry, the flicker of hunger. His hands locked onto her hips and lifted her onto the desk, seating the Inquisitor on its edge. She gave him his reign, his fingers slipping under her tunic. Yet even their warmth could not ease the pain along her ribs. Gentleness carried only so much as she whimpered softly, the tunic slid over her head. Tentative fingertips mapped the rough, ragged line of the bruises where that patterned her middle, spreading up to disappear beneath her breasts' binding. The Commander shook his head, the heat of his hunger slipping into the haze of anger.

He should be there, fighting alongside her. But he knew his place as he knew her place. He let his mouth and hands offered their worries, their answer to her hurts. He served where she could not from the pedestal where they had placed her, isolated. Here, in that place, he could serve where others could not, where he would allow no other. That desire seeped into the fire brewing in his belly, his mouth hot against hers. He let those actions speak, a building roar.

Estelle threaded her fingers into the pale gold curls, giving him that one vice which she dared not take from him. This was all she indulged in, all that she held with fragile threads. She lost herself in it as his mouth marked her chest in its reverence, his kisses and tongue like silk and fire. They trailed downwards, warm against her sternum, stinging rib by rib. No matter how much it hurt, she gave him all of herself.

The desk rattled, a drawer open. The salve stung when Cullen spread it across the mottled purple and green pattern. How many times had they done this, that this act was now habit? Gentle, tender – each stroke made with care, the pot of poultice emptied. Her fingers stiffened as she bit back her cries. His kisses swept them away, eating away the pain. Little by little, the ache muted, her hurts singing a more sombre song.

And for a suspended breath, she hated herself.

"One of these days, you'll regret this..." Her forehead pressed to his, her eyes closed against a pain of a different sort. Emotions ran together, a tempest without a name. How could she torture him like this? It only hurt more when he cupped her face, pale strands cascading over his knuckles. "You don't need my madness in your life. You deserve someone who can make your life happy, someone who won't make you worry."

Silence answered, save for the shift of a coarse, battle-hardened palm over her cheek. His grip tightened on her hair, the curls wound near breaking as he bent her down onto the desk. Cullen's mouth brushed her pulse, a hot, hungry thing. Without a word, the other hand hitched her thigh around his waist, bringing them flush. A flash of white nipped at her ear before the rough, strained voice sounded. It rumbled like thunder, a storm reverberating on the edge of her bones.

"I deserve nothing; not when I have all I could want, right here." There it was, the unaffected smirk unchained from the Order and the chaos of their lives. "I regret nothing."

The man may have command of the Inquisition's armies, but in that moment, Cullen commanded every part of the rogue. Whatever pain, whatever hurt settled deeper than magic or herbs could soothe, became heat pooling in her belly. It filled her up, degree by degree, and she gave into him.

Hands blurred. Leathers. Buckles. Breeches. Clothes scattered or pushed aside.

The map tore but Cullen paid it little mind, heedless of the ink staining his fingers and marking his lover's milky canvas. He relished at the sound of Estelle's stifled cry buried in his shoulder, her nails dragging furrows into his back. It made him feel alive, feel his luck coalesce in her. He felt the desk shudder beneath them, his own fingers biting into the soft Orlesian lumber until splinters dug into his palm.

The Inquisitor's arms hooked beneath his, snaked up his spine and clung to him. Her thighs clamped onto his waist, begging him to fill that emptiness, to answer the heat as it coiled tighter and tighter. Maker, how long could they wait, walking so close the edge?

Her hair fluttered, a golden halo cast back to pool on the desk. It tore a stuttering roar from the commander's lips as he slid into her depth, a dangerous dive made painfully slow and steady until he reached her core. She engulfed him, throbbing heat and desire – all his. A heel spurred into his flank drove him – she needed more. The rhythm began, sure strides matched. Broad hands cupped her buttocks, lifting, hips flexing to make every stroke strike true. Faster, faster into the fray. Each press rocked them, creaking and cracking. They struggled to find purchase, to hold onto one another rather than drift apart. Between them, their mouths seared and suckled, tasting skin and sweat, seeking claim. How many bruises did she make? How many did he leave?

It wasn't enough. The commander's body bore down until the rogue's spine beat against the desk. An overzealous hand snatched her wrist and locked it back, opening her further. Another adjustment, a newer angle made with the slight twist, the rolling snap of his hips and the cadence grew. She spurred it in him and drank his strength, stretched taut. Feeling him move inside her, sink to her depths and rise again only to plunge deeper still – she anchored herself in its tide, alive.

He couldn't stop himself, tearing at her, unable to steal enough of her for himself. He reached it almost too quickly. His head spun like the gears of a crossbow, too tight. His knees quaked, half-bent as she clung to him, took every part of him and made him her own. So close, teetering – they both were. Thick fingers, clever and learned, knew just how to play her, to bring her with him. The right crook timed, curled against her flower and he knew his name sung out into the night and the creak of wood rocking. The former templar let it fill him as he filled her, felt her velvet sheath tremble and writhing around him, her name painted across her lips by his own.

Every hurt fell away, every bruise and its sting forgotten - all Estelle knew were stars and the quirk of her lover's mouth. Her victory, his triumph. Maker, how could she not love the Commander of the Inquisition when he released her from her title for a moment to remember she was more – he made her bold. Perhaps she was the lucky one?

Cullen let his knees give way but he kept her safe – he would always keep her safe, keep her grounded. He knew her like he knew the balance of his sword, marked by a rightness without description. Spent, he collapsed into the forgotten chair, not slipping from Estelle's warmth as he brought that lithe, precious body to settle about him. Breathless, his mouth gave her every assurance, cooed whispers and gentle hands relaying reverence and greed set aside. Yet inside that haze, he could not halt a wicked grin as it spread across his lips.

"What are you smiling at, Cullen?"

She could not see it, the long streak cut along the weakness of the grain – good quality was so hard to find.

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> Fanart always inspires and [Chenria](http://chenria.deviantart.com/) (http://chenria.deviantart.com/) over at deviantART is such a lovely person to work with for commissions. I wrote this as a gift for her since she took my craziness in stride and made something beautiful.
> 
> Merry Christmas, darling, to you and all.
> 
> On a different note, buy Ferelden hardwood – better quality than any Orlesian fanciful scrollwork.


End file.
